


The Saints We See Are All Made Of Gold

by Neelh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Codependency, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire gets a phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> If this seems familiar, then that's probably because this story is derived from my other story, [When The Cards All Fold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1024948). The similarities stop at a certain point, and it all goes downhill from there.
> 
> Title is from Demons by Imagine Dragons.

Grantaire picked up the phone as it began to ring, setting down his charcoals to his left hand side. He'd set his ringtone to _The Fox_ for Combeferre, just to annoy everyone because that man had a tendency to call way too often.

 

"Heya," he sang down the phone, leaning back on his bed and closing his sketchbook.

 

"Grantaire, I need you to go to the shopping centre car park as soon as possible." Combeferre's voice was ragged and Grantaire felt a sudden chill, like a shower that had suddenly run out of hot water. "I wouldn't ask you to do this, but you're the only one who could possibly stop…"

 

"Combeferre, I can never stop anything," he replied emptily.

 

"You need to!" the man on the other end almost screamed. "Enjolras is about to throw himself off the car park roof!"

 

He hung up and pulled his dance shoes on, since they were the closest footwear he had and didn't need to be tied up properly. He didn't have a car, so he would have to run because buses were never on time and there was usually traffic on their routes. The soft leather on his otherwise bare feet felt like a second skin as he sprinted out of the door, leaving it unlocked and only just slammed shut on a moment's hesitation.

 

He darted through the cars, thanking a deity he didn't believe in for the fact that he wasn't going to die too soon to save Enjolras in a car crash, before taking a right turn where he usually went straight on towards the library. He jumped over the barriers in the car park and scrambling up the slope to the second floor.

 

Grantaire pulled out his phone and unlocked it. It took two attempts, since his shaking hands couldn't trace the angular 'R' shape that he had thought was amusing at the time. He had to pause for precious moments to call Enjolras. When he picked up, Grantaire had begun to run again.

 

"Dammit Enjolras you'd better not have already jumped because I'll fucking follow you. I'll follow you anywhere you fucking idealistic fool," he muttered to himself, not realising that he had spoken aloud.

 

"Grantaire?" asked Enjolras quietly. His voice sounded distant through the phone, like he was talking through a thick wall.

 

"Shit, Enj, you actually picked up." Grantaire grabbed the banister with his left hand, pressing his phone against his face.

 

"Of course I did," he replied, sounding exasperated. No, _exhausted_. "You're you."

 

"I'm me?" Grantaire asked, faking his sardonic smirk as his mind flickered back to one night that felt like a lifetime ago, despite being only last week. "A cynical asshole of a cockslut. I suppose I am."

 

"No. You're perfect and smart and so much better than me."

 

"Stop lying."

 

As soon as he had said the words, Grantaire knew that he had made an awful mistake. He could almost feel Enjolras's gaze on him; turning from shock to horror and finally to disappointment that the golden god would probably misdirect towards himself.

 

"You're in the stairs," Enjolras stated. His voice was hollow.

 

"Yes, but I won't be soon," uttered Grantaire, though he tripped up a stair as soon as he finished the sentence. He swore loudly as he picked his phone back up. "Enjolras, I love you, _listen to me_!"

 

"Don't let me love you," he whispered in return, his voice almost obscured by the crackling phone line and quickly depleting signal. "You'll see me as I am, and you'll regret ever falling in love with me in the first place."

 

"I won't, Enjolras," he sobbed, running up the stairs again and steadying himself with his spare hand on the floor. "I know who you are, and I know how charming and terrible you are, I know your flaws and your weaknesses, and I love you despite them, _for_ them! Fuck it, Enjolras, I love you!"

 

He was almost at the eighth and final floor when Enjolras finally whispered his reply. "I love you, too."

 

There was a long pause, broken only with Grantaire's desperate, panting breaths and the sound of a stiff door being wrenched open viciously, making an echoing slam as it finally swung open and hit the wall. Enjolras hung up, throwing his phone to Grantaire, who caught it with his free hand and stuffed it into his pocket.

 

"I meant it," the blonde murmured. He was beautiful against the night sky, perched on the side of the wall. His golden hair was loose, tumbling down his back and over his narrow shoulders. He pulled off his red jacket to reveal the white t-shirt underneath, thumbing the gold trimmings and buttons a final time before dropping it and touching his scarlet lips absently. His hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear as he looked at Grantaire with the last of his happiness and passion. "I love you. I'm sorry."

 

Then he let himself fall.

 

Grantaire had been frozen in the doorway, still clutching Enjolras's phone until the man had breathed his final five words. He ran forwards as soon as the blonde began to lean backwards and screamed at the sound of him hitting the pavement; a bloodcurdling howl that let out the last shred of belief he had in himself.

 

His mind was racing, from A to C to Z to B back to A again. He felt unreal, as though he was in an awful nightmare and couldn't wake himself up, but it would happen naturally soon enough. He dragged his bitten nails down his wrists, biting his lips so hard he could taste blood. Everything felt different now, like blank motions. He breathed. He saw. He picked up his phone, buzzing with unread texts.

 

 **Ferre:** Is he okay?

 **Ferre:** Did you get to him?

 **Ferre:** Are you free to talk?

 **Ferre:** I'm so sorry, I'm just too worried to think straight. Please tell me if he's okay.

 

There were more from Courfeyrac.

 

 **Courf:** Oh my god tell me this isnt happening

 **Courf:** This isnt real, isn't it

 **Courf:** Please tell me this isn't real, r

 **Courf:** I begged him not to do it

 **Courf:** Its my fault isnt it

 **Courf:** I know how he feels right now and i just let him

 **Courf:** R if you never want to speak to me again i won't blame you

 **Me:** i don't blame you, courfey. i never could.

 

With hands that shook awfully and blurred vision from the tears of rage and grief in his eyes, Grantaire managed to tap out a text message to Combeferre.

 

 **Me:** he said "i love you, i'm sorry"

 

Combeferre called him a moment later, and the man laughed bitterly at the ridiculous sound before he picked up.

 

"I-" Combeferre gasped in between his stutters. "Is he-"

 

"He threw himself off." Grantaire paused for a moment, hearing his old friend's hitching breath and half-audible sobs. "He didn't even _throw_ himself. He just… Dropped."

 

He could definitely hear the man crying now. " _No_."

 

"He fucking _told me_ ," the black-haired man growled. "He told me he loved me before he killed himself. He told me he loved me and _apologised_."

 

He took a moment to silently wonder whether Enjolras had apologised for loving him or killing himself.

 

The only reason that Grantaire didn't continue immediately was that Combeferre screamed gutturally. As the noise died down into quieter sobs, Grantaire spoke again.

 

"Take care of Jehan and Bahorel and Bossuet and Joly and everyone else. You can do it, I trust you. They'll take care of you sometimes, too. That's how we all are." Grantaire's voice cracked. "But it's not _we_ anymore. It's you. Fuck, I'm sorry for saying this, but I'm sorry." With a bitter laugh, he said, "I don't want to see any of the rest of you until you've all got wrinkles and laugh lines. But until I do, this is goodbye."

 

Grantaire hung up, not wanting to hear Combeferre's protestations. With a dull smirk, he stripped himself of his hoodie and left it on the ground next to Enjolras's jacket. He placed their phones on their respective coats and hopped onto the wall. For a split-second, he wanted to live, before remembering that he had no chance in the world, unable to exist fully without Enjolras.

 

Alone, he would only survive. He would have his friends, but they would move on while Grantaire fully knew that he would never get over Enjolras dying.

 

He had always believed in Enjolras.

 

He always thought that Enjolras would go out in a blaze of glory, leading a protest that would become a riot that would somehow become a revolution, like a trigger to light the day.

 

He never knew what he wanted, but he knew what he didn't want.

 

He didn't want to live.

 

He didn't look down as he fell.


	2. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They cope, somehow.

Combeferre collapsed on Courfeyrac's sofa after returning from the morgue. He had been dragging himself through life for the past day on the adrenaline he had wrung out from those frozen moments in which he lost two of his friends.

 

He'd _lost them_.

 

But they weren't lost, not really. They'd not been merely misplaced, like a ballpoint pen or a poppy that came unpinned on Remembrance Day. His friends weren't replaced that easily.

 

They couldn't be replaced at all.

 

Combeferre's hands were shaking and he didn't try to stop them. Instead, he slipped onto the floor and put a DVD in the player. Courfeyrac joined him as the menu came up, revealing it to be Rent. He hummed in approval. The familiar music summoned Jehan as well, who was wiping his eyes with the sleeves of an old sweatshirt he had liberated from Grantaire at least four years ago. The man was so tiny that the ratty jumper hung off him like a child in a sack. Combeferre finally pressed the play button and dragged himself back onto the sofa as the opening chords of Seasons of Love began to play.

 

The third verse was probably the point where he realised that his movie selection had been a gigantic mistake. Jehan was mouthing silently along to the lyrics.

 

_In truths that he learnt_

_Or in times that she cried_

_In bridges he burnt_

_Or the way that she died_

 

Thankfully, the tears stopped halfway through the second song. Combeferre couldn't help but concentrate on the relationship between Roger and Mimi, though. How they seemed to be opposites but were deeply similar, and Roger's disappointment when he saw Mimi indulging in her less savoury practises.

 

 _Without You_ had them all in tears.

 

-

 

"He's dead," Bahorel said blankly. "He killed himself."

 

A pause filled their shared apartment's living room.

 

"What will Grantaire do?"

 

Feuilly hugged his friend, who stiffened under his tight embrace. With a barely concealed sob, he replied, "Him too."

 

Bahorel pulled away, holding his friend at a distance. "What?"

 

"Him too," repeated Feuilly. "Grantaire killed himself."

 

The broader man laughed. "God, Feuilly, don't joke about shit like _that_."

 

The Indian-American man pulled his friend's face down to look him directly in the eye. "I'm not lying. Enjolras committed suicide. Grantaire followed him. Fuck, Bahorel, I couldn't lie about this."

 

He raised his hands to touch Feuilly's, feeling the bony fingers as if he were looking for where they were crossed in a lie. When Bahorel felt them flat against his short black hair he collapsed to his knees.

 

"Fuck."

 

Feuilly knelt beside him. "'Horel, it's okay to have emotions."

 

"I fucking know that," the man growled in reply. "I'm not an idiot." He stopped for a moment. "He's fucking _dead_."

 

"I know," Feuilly whispered in just as low a voice. "I can't believe it."

 

Bahorel buried his head in Feuilly's left shoulder and began to sob quietly.

 

-

 

Joly and Bossuet were just as inconsolable as the others, if not more so. As they had never been very closed with their emotions, they would cry together often and had stopped gossiping about their friends.

 

Then again, their two favourite subjects of discussion had gone away forever, so there really wasn't much to talk about. Everyone felt the same as them anyway and all of the fun had gone out of everything - talking, movies, reading. It all reminded them too much of their dead friends. Bossuet would think of a great pun, but when he turned to share it with Grantaire - Grand R, his own idea - there was no one there.

 

Joly often sat in bed tracing his four tattoos. Grantaire had designed the monochromatic wings that sat on his shoulder blades and waist. They were a major argument for Bossuet asking for him to go shirtless in the summer, though Joly insisted on lathering himself in suncream.

 

He wouldn't even sleep without a pyjama top on now.

 

They were more withdrawn from the others now, incapable of seeing Combeferre and Courfeyrac with the knowledge that Enjolras wouldn't be with them again, unwilling to watch Bahorel speak when he wouldn't turn to grin at Grantaire at _another_ joke about dicks. Musichetta was beginning to get angry at them, but they didn't feel at all comfortable with their only friends anymore.

 

"You need to get out of the fucking house," the woman finally pointed out. "You've been moping in the house for three days now. You need a change of scenery, at the very least."

 

They left for the Musain that day.

 

-

 

Jehan had arranged flowers everywhere. Roses in red, white, blue, black, yellow, dark pink, burgundy, orange, and violet, almost all stripped of their thorns, were in small vases of three and four on each table. The only ones sharing vases, however, were the red and white ones. Bunches of phlox were also left around in little shot glasses that were hardly visible under the sheer volume of purple flowers.

 

He had surrounded them with other flowers, though. Red, purple, yellow and white tulips were arranged artfully in a glass vase and left on the table that Grantaire used to occupy, along with a small wine glass with a selection of purple, mauve and red carnations. Someone had bought a bottle of wine and left it next to the arrangement.

 

Enjolras's usual seat was hidden by a vase of Bird of Paradise flowers surrounded by a wreath of bay leaves. A zephyr lily was added to the vase, either as an afterthought or a sudden realisation. A glass half-full of water contained a small collection of elderflowers, gardenias and gladioluses. Joly felt like he was going to have an allergic reaction to the strong smell of all the flowers, since they couldn't even close the window due to the cold winds on the cusp of autumn and winter.

 

Bossuet tripped over Jehan, who was sitting on the floor and drying some white roses. The man looked at his fallen friend and made a noise that might have been a giggle in another world where Enjolras and Grantaire weren't dead. He got up and checked that the flowers were okay before Jehan patted his bald, dark head.

 

"It's okay."

 

They both winced at how empty the words sounded and how much it felt like they were talking about something much different to flowers.

 

Joly looked around at the thing that weren't flowers. Combeferre and Courfeyrac weren't sitting at their usual table. In fact, everyone seemed to have elected to sit on the floor or in chairs that nobody used. Bahorel was curled up on one of the small love seats scattered around the back room next to Feuilly in a startlingly passive way, and the other man had an arm around his shoulders. Marius was sat in between Courfeyrac's legs, who huddled around the smaller boy protectively and held Combeferre's slender, quaking hand. Joly settled himself on the floor near where Bossuet had landed, and the bald man put his head in his lap.

 

"Where are Cosette and Éponine?" Bossuet asked after a long silence, punctuated only by small kisses between members of the group and Jehan's small swears when he crushed his fingers between the heavy books he was drying flowers in.

 

Courfeyrac nuzzled further into Marius's neck. "They're on holiday in Corsica. We didn't… We didn't want to disturb them."

 

Bossuet nodded awkwardly in reply.

 

"We're going to organise the funeral when they're back. It's going…" Combeferre paused in his quiet explanation. "It needs to be closed-casket."

 

Marius opened his mouth immediately after. "Why?"

 

He seemed to realise his mistake immediately after, as most of the people in the room glared at him harshly, with the exceptions of Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet.

 

"Be grateful," Combeferre growled, dropping Courfeyrac's hand, "that you weren't the one who had to identify the bodies."

 

The silence was uncomfortable after that, and when Bossuet recounted the story Musichetta didn't blame them for their need to stay inside.

 

-

 

"We're back!" Éponine grinned, bursting into the Musain with her fists full of shopping bags and Cosette around her arm. "We brought you all presents!"

 

They stopped in the doorway when they saw the scene that awaited them. Instead of the odd, flower-surrounded groups they were in before, the Amis had become a pile of cuddles and emotionless faces.

 

"What's wrong?" Cosette asked. Her blue eyes were wide and her hand still hovering in the air from where she was about to tuck a strand of bottle-blonde hair behind her ear. She looked around at the tables, noting where the vases stood with flowers that were beginning to wilt and the bottle of wine that had been replaced since the few days that the small memorials for them both had begun. Enjolras's laptop had joined his flowers and most of the roses had been removed and relocated to the group's individual apartments.

 

"Cosette, Éponine, you may need to sit down," Bahorel said. He bit his lip. "God knows I did."

 

"You can tell us standing," replied Éponine harshly, setting the bags down on the floor.

 

Courfeyrac glanced at each of his friends. They all looked as uncomfortable as he felt. "There isn't a way to sugarcoat this," he realised before continuing. "Enjolras and Grantaire are dead."

 

Éponine slumped sideways into her girlfriend's arms and closed her eyes. "I shouldn't have gone."

 

"You had no way of realising," Marius tried to interject.

 

"I did." She stood back up, holding Cosette's arm for stability. "He - Grantaire - told me what happened the morning after. I should've known. I should have been there. I should've fucking _done_ something!"

 

"Éponine!" exclaimed Courfeyrac as the brunette almost punched Grantaire's memorial bouquet. "Éponine, don't-"

 

She hit him in the stomach.

 

"'Ponine!"

 

At the sound of Cosette's voice, the woman calmed. "Shit. I'm sorry."

 

Courfeyrac shook his head. "Don't be. I was being kind of…" He waved his hands in the air.

 

"Exactly," she replied. "You did nothing, and I lashed out at you."

 

There was a pause.

 

"I'm going out to get really drunk now. Cosette, could you hand out the gifts?"

 

The blonde kissed Éponine chastely. "Of course. Don't try and get back to the flat alone. Call one of us. Also, text me regularly so I don't start worrying."

 

Éponine embraced her. "I'll try." Turning to the rest of the group, she asked, "Anyone coming with me?"

 

Bahorel dragged himself up and Feuilly joined him. Combeferre nodded before also standing.

 

"I never pegged you for a 'drink away your sorrows' person," Éponine said thoughtfully.

 

"None of us did," responded Coufeyrac slowly. No one stopped Combeferre, though, and he left with the three others.

 

Cosette seemed uncomfortable as she handed out the gifts. Marius smiled weakly at the French editions of The Hunger Games that she had chosen for him, while Courfeyrac hugged her when he received the natty tourist gifts he had requested. Jehan pulled her into his lap when she pulled out a CD of traditional Corsican music and kissed her.

 

"I am a married woman, Jean Prouvaire!" she exclaimed happily, forgetting the grief that had overcome them for a moment.

 

"Wait," interrupted Courfeyrac. "Seriously?"

 

Cosette bit her lip and flashed him her silver ring. "Engaged. We were going to say but…"

 

An uncomfortable silence took over again before the three men tackled her in a large cuddle pile.

 

"I'm happy for you," Jehan beamed, nuzzling her neck. "I'm sorry I can't show it."

 

"Don't be." Cosette stroked his hair with her left hand, even as she leaned her head into Courfeyrac's chest and entangled the fingers of her other hand into Marius's curls. "Éponine is going to be inconsolable. I guess I am too."

 

The last part was said in such a quiet voice that nobody was quite sure if they'd heard her properly. They held their friend close as she started to sob, though.

 

After, a book on the history of Corsica and another bottle of wine were added to Enjolras's and Grantaire's tables.

 

-

 

It wasn't until the night before the funeral that Combeferre finally opened Enjolras's laptop. He did so with the intention of finishing all of his articles and tying up loose ends in the man's internet presence. He didn't know that Enjolras had already sorted it out, leaving a Word document as the only thing saved on it.

 

-

 

Hi Combeferre.

 

If you are not Combeferre, please give him the laptop right now.

 

I'd apologise, but you know that if I would be really sorry then I would actually be alive right now instead of dead, which I should be anyway.

 

All I can say is that this has been a long time coming, and if you didn't realise then I guess I was better at acting than any of us thought. Maybe if I'd taken Theatre Studies instead of World History, I'd be in East 15 right now and not preparing to throw myself off a building.

 

I fucked Grantaire. If he hasn't told you that already, then I need to. I need him so much. I love him. I wish I could spend my life with him but you know as well as I do how that would end. He would end up hating me once he saw how fallible I am; how alike we are. So I took the one night I could and made the most of it, but when the morning came I had to leave. I couldn't see him wake up and see his smile when he met my eyes and fall in love with him that little bit more.

 

So I left.

 

Jehan slapped me before bursting into tears and apologising. I didn't know what to do, so I ran. I've been becoming a coward and it's been happening for so long, but nobody's noticed because I was too scared to call for help.

 

I still could right now, theoretically, but I can't bring myself to. I am far, far too proud.

 

I love you, 'Ferre. Not like I love Grantaire - that would frankly be too strange for me - but I love you. You are one of the better things in my life, along with all the rest of Les Amis, but you've been with me for so long that you are the one who I divulge the deepest parts of myself to.

 

There is probably a less pretentious way to put that, but I'm too tired of everything to try to.

 

Also, since I'll be dead and I know that you need to share secrets, tell them about me. Not Enjolras the Revolutionary, but my meness. That looks really weird, but see above for my feelings on the matter.

 

I have about thirty sketches by R in my top drawer. It's weird, but I like having pieces of him near me, and his art is to him what my speeches are to me.

 

Tell Jehan that I never meant to make him cry. I was scared of my feelings towards Grantaire and my need to keep those emotions to myself and my fear of Jehan, _tell me how awful I am_.

 

I haven't got the time to write anything else. I started this with a clear plan in my mind and everything. Tell the others I love them so much. I'm so bad at showing it, I'm not sure that they know.

 

Stop Grantaire from doing anything stupid like following me. He'll blame himself and I want him to move on and live and

 

Just help him let me go.

 

Enjolras

 

-

 

Combeferre woke up the next day and pulled his clothes on. Enjolras and Grantaire wouldn't have forgiven them if anyone had worn a suit, and since it was almost completely winter now, people were wearing jumpers and coats.

 

At the cemetery where they would cremate and bury their bodies, the Amis elected two people to speak about their dead friends to the small crowd of mourners. This was how Combeferre and Éponine had ended up looking out into tearstained faces from in front of a table. Éponine kept glancing back to a pair of curtains that hid the coffins.

 

Combeferre looked to the group of people. "I had a speech about how I thought Enjolras would want to be remembered, portraying him as an orator to the masses and a proud revolutionary. However, I opened his laptop last night and discovered that he wanted something that was quite the opposite." He smiled weakly, before launching into is completely improvised speech. "I met Enjolras when I was five. He punched someone for calling me gay before lecturing them on the use of homophobic language. These words were evidently too long for my six-year-old assailant to comprehend and he punched Enjolras back. I broke up the fight and we ended up friends. He was diagnosed with Aspergers Syndrome a year later which explained pretty much everything we learnt about each other in that time. For example, if he was here now, he would be laughing at the odd gestures I'm doing. I'd laugh with him." He chuckled at the thought before suddenly becoming sombre. "He was sixteen when he began to confide in me about his suicidal thoughts. As soon as we were old enough, he changed his medical contact to me and hugged me. That was around the time I realised that one day, I was going to go to a morgue and identify his dead body." With a deep swallow and a glance to the floor, Combeferre finished. "That day came sooner than we all hoped."

 

Éponine stood forward next, and the girl was _made_ for funerals. Like Grantaire and Jehan, misery seemed to suit her in a twisted fashion, and she seemed beautiful for the bags under her eyes and the rubbed-off makeup.

 

"Grantaire is indescribable. The present tense is necessary, because that hasn't changed about him. His art is no better or worse due to his change of state from alive to dead. Sure, this fucked world we live in will pay us extortionate amounts of money to have a pretty painting, and they'll cry over the story of the artist who couldn't bear to live without his beloved orator, but nobody will actually remember Grantaire, our resident cynical alcoholic. Nobody will, except us. People look at him and see a depressed artist, but we have been granted a privilege in knowing this man. This beautiful dancer who can perform the most difficult solos, who can improvise a piano piece and harmonise with a song on the radio he's never heard before. Nobody else will hear him argue while drunk, but still completely coherent and able to slip puns and references to Greek mythology into his tirade on how Enjolras's plan to liberate the homeless is a complete waste of time and energy that could be better spent dismantling the patriarchy. We didn't even know about the patriarchy bit until ten minutes later, when Enjolras agreed with him. That happened a lot more than any of us realised, save for Combeferre, but he was cheating because he had Enjolras telling him." Éponine bit her lip and met the gaze of everyone in the room. "But Grantaire is more than he ever thought he was and more than society will ever make him."

 

The crowd applauded quietly.

 

"That was good," Jehan murmured to her.

 

"Are you sure that was a good thing to say?" Feuilly asked Combeferre.

 

He shook his head. "Not to them. But it was for us."

 

"Yes," mused Cosette. "It was."

 

-

 

Christmas bells were ringing and Cosette felt cold as she woke up. Her body was warm - Éponine took care of that, especially so last night - but her gut felt odd. The best analogy her sleepy brain offered was that it felt like there was a Dementor in the room. She suddenly realised what she thought she had come to terms with a month ago and burst into tears.

 

Her wailing caused Éponine to run back into the room, wearing a purple jumper and black jeans, her Santa hat askew, and cuddle Cosette until her owls had died down and she was clinging to her girlfriend just for contact.

 

"Do you want to go today?" Éponine finally asked, prising her fingers out of Cosette's curls.

 

The other woman nodded. "Just let me shower and get dressed."

 

"I'll have waffles ready."

 

Cosette laughed quietly. "Éponine, you are a saint."

 

When they got to Combeferre's apartment and hour later, though, they almost turned back around.

 

"You’re what?” shouted the man, audible even through the walls. “Are you sorry? Are you going to imagine how awful it must have been for me to see my best friend’s smashed, dead body and the man who loved him just as broken next to him? Do you know what it’s like to have heard a man’s last words before he hung up the phone and killed himself? Because I fucking do.”

 

A pause, during which Cosette straightened her red dress and fidgeted uncomfortably.

 

"No, I don't think I'll come down for Boxing Day either, or New Years. Don't expect me back again."

 

Éponine finally knocked on the door. Combeferre opened it a moment later, red-faced and looking disgruntled as well as ashamed. His hair was rumpled, probably from a ridiculous Christmas hat that one of the others had forced upon him before ripping it off in frustration.

 

Cosette met his eyes, almost filled with tears, and pressed a button on the side of Éponine's hat as she did the same to her own. The snowflakes on her girlfriend's hat trim lit up at the same time as her red stars, bringing a small smile to Combeferre's face.

 

"Come in," he grinned. "Merry Christmas."

 

The rest of the Amis were crowded on the sofa, wearing various Christmas headgear. Éponine was assaulted by a squishy package thrown at her head by Bahorel.

 

"I swear, if this is any form of clothing…"

 

"You'll thank me," Bahorel grinned in return.

 

She unwrapped it, crumpling the paper up and throwing it in the general direction of Courfeyrac.

 

"Hey, this is actually pretty awesome," she said, looking at the oversized brown hoodie in her hands.

 

When all the gifts were exchanged, Cosette looked up at everyone from her seat on the floor. "I think we should go and visit Enjolras and Grantaire."

 

The others exchanged glances before Combeferre decided for them all. "I think we should, too."

 

-

 

The flowers had begun to wilt, so Jehan had replaced them.

 

Joly and Bossuet had rejoined the group as they gradually begun to speak about things other than Enjolras and Grantaire and "How-are-you-doing"-"I'm-okay-thank-you."

 

When Courfeyrac had burst in with a look of fury on his face and slammed a stack of papers down on the nearest table, everyone had stared at him until he realised what he'd done.

 

"Shit, I forgot… I forgot Enjolras wasn't here." He laughed uncomfortably for a moment. "It's just these statistics are fucking _awful_. How the hell are these companies getting away with it?"

 

"I think," grinned Bahorel, "that some action needs to be taken against them."

 

"Where are we starting?" asked Jehan, sitting up and sliding into a chair.

 

"I think we should do some petitioning," Cosette said, standing and moving to sit on the table. "I'll raise awareness on my blog."

 

Bossuet nodded enthusiastically. "I'll research some more with Joly."

 

The brunet nodded, grimacing. "I may be coming down with a cold. I don't want to worsen it. Also, it's nearing spring, so my allergies are worsening."

 

"Joly, you're not actually allergic to anything," sighed Bossuet.

 

Feuilly laughed lightheartedly. "I believe he's allergic to kiwis, but that's it. Anyway, we should probably-"

 

No one heard what they should probably do, as Combeferre stood and stormed out of the Musain.

 

-

 

Enjolras wouldn't want this. He would want Combeferre to move on and be happy. But he couldn't. It was impossible to put on a smile and talk about insignificant things on a daily basis when every night he could hear his phone buzzing with a text and his rushed call to Grantaire to confirm everything before he was told to take care of all of his friends.

 

He felt a cold, stabbing sensation in his stomach the moment he knew Grantaire was dead. He called 999, but everyone knew it was futile and he really just had no idea of what to do.

 

Combeferre found his feet making their way to the car park and up to the roof. He wasn't sure why. The brisk winds made his coat flap around him almost as much as his unkempt caramel hair did. He slowly brought a hand out of his pocket and up his face to push his silver-framed glasses up, before pulling his phone out of his pocket and making a call.

 

"'Ferre? What is it?" Éponine's voice was half an octave higher than usual.

 

"I'm on the roof of the car park. Can someone come and find me?"

 

He sat on the part of the wall where he instinctively knew that Enjolras had spent his last few moments that he wasn't falling for. Though he considered removing his jacket, he decided to keep it on.

 

"'Ferre? Oh my fucking-" Éponine rushed up to hug him, pulling him off the wall and back onto the solid tarmac of the car park ground. "'Ferre, we're all so worried! You…"

 

"I wasn't going to do it," he said abruptly, stiffening under her embrace until she broke away. "I just… I'm beginning to forget them. I can't remember what Enjolras looked like mid-rant, or how Grantaire smiled when you spoke to him while he was drawing. I'm beginning to forget what they sounded like."

 

Biting her lip, Éponine held out her phone. "I used to want to record my life on video and stuff, so I'd never forget anything. I never deleted anything, so… There's one clip with both of those things."

 

Combeferre took the phone and Éponine's other hand. He smiled slightly. "Thanks."

 

"I've been starting it again," she blurted. "Grantaire died, and I realised how fragile we all are. At any point in our lives, Joly could contract a terminal illness, or Bahorel could die in a fistfight, or Cosette could be hit by a car. I want to live for today and keep my memories for tomorrow. I don't want to forget, and I want to keep creating new memories." Éponine paused for breath before looking at Combeferre pleadingly. "My best friend died before I could marry my fiancée. I want to have as many of my loved ones with me when I finally manage to. I'd marry her tomorrow, if I could! But we're all still so, so miserable because we are so fucking codependent that now two of us are gone, we're all broken. But one day, we'll be fixed as much as we can be, and I'm not sure if I'm doing this right but this is the only way I've known to deal with this."

 

He fell into the brunette's arms for a good minute.

 

"I'll help you plan your wedding," he said.

 

"And I'll help you with anything," she replied. "We're all such a codependent mess."

 

"We wouldn't have it any other way."

 

-

 

Les Amis were all lying in a pile in Combeferre's apartment, since half of them were unofficially moved in there anyway. Jehan had chosen the movie, but Éponine had noticed the way that Combeferre had frozen when the title screen came up.

 

"Rent?" he asked nervously.

 

"Yeah, I thought it'd be good for us," nodded Jehan lazily before leaning on Courfeyrac's legs.

 

Nobody spoke again until after the movie, though many would swear that they heard Combeferre singing along in a nearly silent baritone.

 

_There's only us_

_There's only this_

_Forget regret_

_Or life is yours to miss_

_No other road_

_No other way_

_No day but today_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand i'm done
> 
> Sorry it went kind of cheesy at the end.


End file.
